“I don’t know.”
“W-A-D-D.” The letters on the California plates are large and bold. We don’t understand it. We hear John walking down the courtyard clanking a huge ring of keys, and we nudge each other to be quiet. He rounds the tree and smiles at us. I get the feeling he has heard our comments, and I mouth to my sister a silent, “Shhhh.” He comes at us with long strides, his gestures expressive and dramatic. He runs his hands through his hair and rubs sweat off of his brow, as if he is posing because he knows we are watching. In the outside light, in his cutoff jeans and white T-shirt, he is taller and skinnier than I remember.
“Oh no,” Terry says suddenly, turning away. “His shoes!”
My eyes scan the ground. John is wearing the loudest, red, white, and blue, stars and stripes tennis shoes we have ever seen. They are obnoxious!
What a geek! I think, feeling my face burn red. This guy is definitely strange, and I’m so embarrassed for him.
John walks past us, still fumbling with the keys, and unlocks the garage. Avoiding our eye, he gathers hoes, gloves, and hand rakes. “Where’s Juan?” he asks, his voice husky and his back toward us.
“He’s coming,” Terry nervously answers, trying to cover for the other half of the green lump back on the cottage floor.
“He’s still sleeping,” I mumble under my breath and roll my eyes.
Terry nudges me hard in the side, stopping me from saying more. John pauses, glances my way, and smiles. Slowly I turn away, my back to him, and smile too.
“Come on.” John changes the mood with his booming, serious voice. “I’ll show you where to start.” John leads us to the back cottage. The overgrown weeds are thick and tangled. It looks as if no one has tended to the yard for many seasons. The sun, already hot, blares fully onto the side of the cottages. “You’d better get working, girls, before it gets too hot.” John heads down to Harriet’s to get Juan.
“I hope he’s up, Terry,” I say doubtfully.
“Me too.”
John returns with Juan in tow, leading him farther down the courtyard to work on pruning a large tree. Terry and I labor silently in the heat, pulling weeds and digging up their roots. Hours seem to go by. We are getting tired and thirsty when, suddenly, John appears next to us.
Without a word, John is down on his knees pulling weeds and digging deep into the soil next to me. The sun turns to hot noon as he wipes the sweat from his brow, leans back to squint at the sky, and announces, “Let’s have lunch.” John leads us single file back to his cottage. I like the idea of straggling behind, still connected to the earth, not quite willing to be in the static conversation among John, Terry, and Juan.
“Sit down,” he offers as we enter the coolness of his living room. “And don’t mind the dogs. They only bite a little.” He laughs at his own joke.
The room is a menagerie of knickknacks and charm. Half of the living room is covered from floor to ceiling in numerous homemade shelves. Looking at each shelf, I see an animal figurine, an exotic shell, a brass lion, and a candy dish. The walls are giant puzzles, with every square inch adorned with hats from around the world, curious framed costume jewelry, antique meat hooks, and various antique weapons. Patchworks of different-colored carpet samples, pieced together by hand, cover the floor, and in the corner by the front window, the most beautiful gold desk with a glass-mirrored top and lion’s head drawer handles leans under a billowing curtain.
The ugly dog is back and barking at our heels, blowing snot as we take a seat on the couch.
“John L,” John shouts, smiling and pretending to sound harsh, “you be nice!”
As John disappears into the kitchen, a miniature dachshund comes waddling out of the back room barking blindly into the air.
“That’s Buttons,” John calls from the kitchen between whirring noises. “She’s the grandma and blind as a bat.”
John L jumps up on the couch, loudly sniffing each of us in turn. Buttons nudges my leg lightly, relying completely on her sense of hearing and smell. I reach down to hold out my hand, talking to her softly.
The dogs quickly converge on John as he walks out of the kitchen with a tray full of food and drinks. Setting the tray down on the small coffee table, he pulls up a footstool and grins. “Dig in!” On the tray is a log of sausage, a wheel of the oddest-smelling cheese, a loaf of French bread, mustards, olives, other unopened jars, and a pitcher full of frothy pink stuff. John grabs the glasses and starts pouring.
“This is my own invention,” he proclaims proudly. “I call it fruit frappé.”
“Yum, thanks.” I gulp the smooth, sweet, thirst-quenching liquid.
As we savor our cool drinks, John starts dishing out food. He pulls out a huge Buck Knife, skillfully unfolds it with a sharp snap into the air, and slices the sausage.
“This is summer sausage. The best!” He cuts off hunks and throws one to each of the begging dogs at his heels. “And this is Camembert.” He spreads thick, greasy globs onto pieces of torn French bread, one for each of us. “Mm, mm.” His eyes roll into the back of his head. “Have you ever smelled anything better than that?” he asks, smiling and putting the cheese up to our noses.
“Ewww!” Terry says, faking a gag.
“Not bad.” Juan sounds like he wants to show off.
“It’s okay, I guess,” I answer. It does smell good, but I’m still carrying a grudge and don’t want to agree with John too much.
John gives me a quick look and a smirk as if to say, I know what you’re thinking.
This infuriates me. God, he always acts like he can see right through me. He doesn’t know anything about me! my mind screams as I sit chewing my food in silence.
John eats facing the bookshelves, away from the table, staring, as if in deep thought.
“What’s that?” Terry asks, breaking the reprieve and pointing at the funny-looking jar on the tray.
“Why don’t you try some and see?” John says, snapping back into the conversation. John reaches for the jar and twists open the lid. He pulls out an oily-looking nugget, holds it to his mouth, and proclaims, “Frog legs!” before swallowing it whole.
“No way!” I cry. “That’s disgusting!”
“I’ll try one,” Juan pipes up, laughing at me.
“Yeah?” John says. “How about you, Terry?”
“No, thank you.”
“That’s the sickest thing I’ve ever seen. You have no idea how many squished frogs we saw every day in Florida,” I interrupt, letting down my guard and revealing a bit about myself.
“Really? Well, we can just put them away then.” John smiles.
“No wait,” Juan cries, wanting to meet his challenge. “Hey, Terry, you have to try some too!”
Trying to be revolting, Juan gulps down three of the slimy legs; Terry is brave and tries one small piece as a dare. John doesn’t eat any more and downplays the game. I get the feeling he is taking my side suddenly.
We clean up and then head back out to finish the yard work, feeling relaxed from the food and more secure about earning our keep from the manager. At dusk we lock the tools in the garage, and John gives us decent pay. Dirty and tired, we head back to Harriet’s to shower and have some dinner.
Harriet clangs in the kitchen making her famous cheese potatoes and meat loaf while Dad stands next to her at the stove praising her skills. She is glowing. To me, they look really stoned, and they’re acting giddy.
After my shower, I find a quiet spot behind various huge potted plants at the kitchen table to scan over my poetry. So much has happened to us in such a short time, and we have met so many people that I feel I need to write. Cat Stevens’ “Wild World” plays on the stereo in the living room and, like the message of the song, I hope I will be all right on our new adventure in this crazy world. I am in a reflective mood. Poetry is my solace: the one thing that belongs to me and no one else.
“Whatcha doing?” Dad asks, peeking his head over the plants.
“Aw, you know,” I answer shyl
y.
“Oh, that stuff again?” Dad remarks, seeing me in a familiar mode of writing. “Company’s here and dinner’s ready. Come and eat.”
In the living room, Harriet is introducing a guy in his twenties to Juan and Terry. “Oh, hey, Mike. This is Dawn,” Harriet says, pointing in my direction as I enter the room.
“Hey,” I say, thinking there is something dull about this guy even though he looks kinda cute.
“Hey,” Mike responds, his eyes growing large as he looks up at me, causing me to step back a bit.
“Mike lives next door,” Harriet informs us with a smile. There is a brief silence before Harriet offers him to join us for dinner.
“Sure thing!”
Everyone sits where they can find a spot. Mike and I end up sitting next to one another on the floor. I sense he is feeling as shy as I am at the way Harriet keeps smiling at us, as if she is setting us up. Ewww, I think, embarrassed, and then dismiss the entire idea.
We quickly finish dinner, warm and delicious after all the hard work that day. Then we sit making small talk.
“Is he coming?” Mike asks.
“He said he would be here in a little while,” Harriet tells him.
“Who?” I ask curiously.
“The manager.” Harriet’s voice is dry.
Mike smiles and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, the manager,” he says, laughing to himself.
Just then there is a knock at the door. It is John. He is freshly showered, and his hair is combed loosely back. He’s wearing a faded jean jacket with hand-sewn embroidery, a fresh white T-shirt, nice-fitting faded blue jeans, and heavy tan Frye boots. His presence is intense as he walks in, smiling as if he has just been introduced. “Hello!” He smells of nice cologne, and for some reason I feel a bit uncomfortable that I am sitting next to Mike.
“Oh, uh, am I interrupting anything?” John asks, overacting and feigning embarrassment for having walked in on something private. For a quick second, I think I see him flash me an almost jealous look. “Shall we go to the kitchen,” he indicates to Mike, “or, uh, do you want to go next door?”
Mike gets up. “The kitchen’s fine, man. Don’t want to hold you up.” He leads the way. John follows, then turns to scan the room again, landing the last look on me before he enters the kitchen. It is clear that Mike is going to buy some pot John is holding. When they come back into the living room, Mike is smiling and John won’t look my way.
It is strange, but I don’t want him to leave. He is kind of fun, sometimes, and at least entertaining. John stands in the center of the room in a way that makes me feel like he wants my attention. I keep my head down and try not to notice.
As he says his good-byes, he reaches down behind me and picks up a blossom that has dropped from one of Harriet’s flowering plants. “Is this yours?”
“Oh, uh, no, but uh, thank you,” I stammer, taken aback by his sudden closeness and the intensity of his eyes.
He draws in a quick breath, places the flower behind my ear, says good night again, and walks out. No one says a word.
My heart is racing. My cheeks are burning red. Why? I think. Why? Knock it off, I tell myself. This is ridiculous. I try to push him out of my mind.
After John leaves, Mike rolls a fatty and passes it around. Dad and Harriet sit huddled together on the couch, whispering secretively. “Why don’t we go to my place?” Mike announces.
“Cool!” Terry and Juan chime as we scramble to our feet, leaving Dad and Harriet to themselves.
Mike’s cottage is your typical stoner bachelor pad. A single, old, worn couch, television, and broken-down coffee table are the only evidence of habitation in the living room. “Sit down,” Mike offers. “I got enough to roll one more doobie. John’s gonna bring some more back in a while.”
Cool, I think. At least we will be entertained.
Juan and Mike sit to talk about themselves. Juan’s stories of survival on the streets of Carol City trump Mike’s pot smoking stories, and Juan is eating up the attention.
Terry and I take a pass on the pot and kick back on the sofa to enjoy some semi-privacy. The small color television runs lines of irritating static, and we take turns getting up to play with the wire hanger rabbit ear antenna. I feel comfortable and secure sitting with my sister on a couch in front of the TV, a reminder of our old life. We fall into easy laughter at a comedy channel that finally comes in clear.
Hours have slipped by. It is getting very late, and John still hasn’t returned. All television stations have signed off for the night. We can stay awake no longer, and the three of us say good night.
“He always shows up,” Mike tells us on our way out. “You just never know when.”
Quietly we creep back to Harriet’s, tiptoeing on the hardwood floors. The lights are out.
“Dad, Dad,” I whisper. There’s no answer.
“He’s not in here, Dawn,” Terry says, examining the empty room.
“Oh, help me pull the couch down then.” I am irritated that Dad is in the bedroom with Harriet.
Juan rolls out the sleeping bag and scrambles in, waiting for Terry to join him. “I’m sleeping with Dawn on the couch,” she insists. “The floor’s too hard.”
He mumbles something in Cuban and rolls over.
Lying in bed that night, I realize I can’t sleep. John is on my mind—intensely on my mind. It makes me mad. You think you can get me, I think angrily. I’ll show you. I’m not someone you can have that easy. I picture an image of us together and, with a shiver, cast it out.
Hours later, I am awakened by the sound of his van pulling down the alley. I hold my breath as his footsteps walk loudly up the courtyard, hesitate, then step up to his cottage. Then I hear him open and close his door. I fall asleep wondering about the pause in his steps, the sense of him listening, and I can’t resist the urge to picture him, standing there, curious if someone is awake.
In the morning I decide that this is enough of the John attraction thing. No more messing around. We have just arrived in California, and acting like this is crazy. There are tons of things I want to do, and I am looking forward to them. Making new friends, going to school, and starting over are at the top of my list. This is a new start, a new beginning. We are out of the “road to nowhere,” away from Carol City. This is our new lease on life. Besides, John is in his thirties! He is much too old, and he is married!
Sharon Holmes rarely seems to be around. Terry, Juan, and I met her briefly on our first day at the cottages. Just home from work, she was walking up to her porch in her white nursing pants and top while the three of us sat lounging on Harriet’s front steps.
“Oh, uh, Sharon,” Harriet called out to her, “I’d like for you to meet my new houseguests.”
Expressionless, Sharon looked at all of us. “Hi,” she said curtly, nodding after everyone was named. Her face remained stonelike, detached, and a cold chill ran down my spine. Scary, I thought. Harriet told us she was a children’s nurse and very smart, but she looked mean to me. Without any further comment, Sharon turned quickly on her white rubber heel and stepped through her doorway, leaving us to question whether she approved of us or not.
Five days a week, Sharon pulls up in her blue, black-top Chevy Malibu at around 5:30 in the evening. In her white nurse’s uniform, she ritually heads for her cottage and carries a book bag full of patients’ charts and Harlequin romances. She wears thick, dark-rimmed glasses, no makeup, and a different-colored curling yarn every day to tie back her long, salt-and-pepper hair. Rarely does she speak to anyone. I only see her talk to people when she receives rent checks or arranges repairs for the tenants. When she is home, an occasional eerie glimpse of her silhouette stands quietly behind her screen door. She looks much older than John, and Harriet and Mike think she acts more like his mother than his wife.
“They’re not together like a couple,” Mike tells us one day after Terry comments on how cold the relationship between John and Sharon appears.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“John told me and, well, just watch them,” Mike answers. “They hardly even talk to each other. John goes home for dinner every night, and she does his laundry. That’s what he told me. It’s been like that for years now.”
“That’s so weird,” Terry says. “Maybe she’s seeing someone else.”
“I know. Maybe. Everyone thinks it’s weird, but no one asks them about it. It’s their thing, I guess.” He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal.
Mike’s cottage makes a great hangout and feels the most comfortable of the places we’ve been since we left Florida. He, it turns out, is a twenty-two-year-old struggling college student and not just a stoner. Mike slips easily into a big brother kind of friendship with Terry and me, and he and Juan become buddies.
Easygoing, Mike has a soft spot for us after learning about our trek here and Dad’s sickness. He knows Harriet’s place is crowded and awkward. In no time, Juan has a key to the front door and we are allowed to hang out even if Mike isn’t home. Just as quickly he agrees, along with John and Sharon, that Juan and Terry can live at his place. Juan has found a job in a hamburger joint down the street on Lomita, and Mike needs help with the rent anyway. Juan’s first paycheck makes the payment on a used water bed, and the obvious spot for it is smack-dab in the middle of the living room.
“Congratulations, Ter. You’re an official independent couple now.” Dad pats her on the back. Terry looks away. She is not very happy about Dad’s enthusiasm—and not too happy with Juan.
At first, I don’t spend a lot of time at Terry and Juan’s new place. I don’t want to interrupt their arrangement, and I’m enjoying more time to myself. I am also happy to be away from Juan. There is a new freedom in my heart, a lightness. The sun really shines here, I think. People walk down the street and don’t get jumped. I know Terry is scared, but I feel hopeful for the first time in many years.
The words to my poetry come to me like butterfly wings, happy and free and beautiful. Silly poems of gratitude and love flow like water from my pen, and I keep them like precious pieces of my soul, safely bound in my book of writings, pleased with the feeling that I have turned a corner of darkness in my life.
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 9